Dashing through the snow
by Fortyfive stars
Summary: A longer DMHG, currently planned to about five or seven chapters. Christmas. Secrets. Unrequited love. What do you want for Christmas? she whispered. His breath ghosted across her cheek. Someone to wake up to. That's all.
1. A winter tale

The melodious jingle of the doorbell (charmed to play Jingle Bells while the miniature snow men –complete with carrot noses and candy for dainty buttons- danced a cheerful jig in the shop window) alerted Hermione to the presence of a new customer in her shop.

Her eyes, her face, yes, in fact her entire body and manner was at once all one of warmth, cheer, welcoming affability and how-may-I-be-of-service-today?-helpfulness.

She assessed him briefly, eyes frank and appraising under the modestly lowered eyelashes. Wealthy. Well-made clothes, rich cloth, fine cut.

Her mind began mapping what he might possibly be interested in and drawing up a list from the large catalouge of what she kept in stock. Something exclusive, no doubt.

Was he a rich fool? she wondered hastily, much too used to that sort and apt to dislike them even though they were to thank for a substantial part of her income. They tended to buy anything, provided it was gaudy, exotic-looking and she overpriced it outrageously enough.

He looked good enough, she supposed, or would've if his lips had not been fixed in a constant, unwavering sneer. The sort who'd say _nigger_ and _vermin_ in the same tone of voice and who'd drink tea like a ponce, little finger sticking out at an aristocratically right angle.

She smothered a giggle, storing it away somewhere behind her straight eyebrows (unplucked), frank eyes and inviting mouth, generously ampled with the past years.

His hair was very pale and gossamerfine, as softlooking as the last breath of a woman who dies old in her bed, warm and content. She wondered how it would feel between her calloused hands, then briefly looked down at her fingers and wished the ink stains hadn't been so painfully visible. The darkness ran in the folds between nail and finger, illustrating how the season and hard work made her fingers appear chubbier, shorter. It didn't look very neat.

Her customer paid her no heed, his whole being disregarding her from the way the half-lidded eyes lazily flickered around the establishment (seeming to taint her cozy, heartwarming little shop by his very presence) to the way he rigidly held himself. She saw how he caught sight of the untidy apartment behind the door at the corner, how he disdainfully flicked away a few specks of dust from a shelf. (her face felt hot and heavy, shame and anger warring for dominion)

A cold wind cooled her rising temper, clumps of snowflakes presaging another customer as the snow men began a maddeningly rousing allemande.

She started, too bewildered then she ought to have been. For why should not Severus Snape enter her shop? She was widely known for carrying only the finest stock, after all. Then her eyes narrowed, and after a few seconds of patient rummaging provided the necessary description, pinning down the helpless feeling of recognising someone but not quite remembering who or why. _Draco Malfoy_.

"Well, gentlemen," she drawled, because she felt certain she could afford to lose these two as customers, "what a surprise. Christmas shopping, are we?"

Outside, children made delighted gurgles of laughter. The donkey that was meant to be carrying Mary and baby Jesus on its back had rebelled and was trying to learn how to skate on the frozen ice in her miniature winter landscape.

Snape smiled, if a tiny, tiny flexing of his thin lips could be called a smile. "Hardly. Well, miss Granger, you've done well for yourself, or so it's been said."

"Hm. Possibly. Oh, please _don't _shake that!" she exclaimed, wheeling on Malfoy. He was holding a small crystal ball, dwarfed even in his slight palms. It glimmered tantalisingly. "It's just a prototype, for decoration," she explained urgently and left the safety behind her counter. Her low-heeled boots clappered an impersonal staccato rhythm against the stone floor. "Prone to explosions if upset." With a sound just like an irritated cat she held her hand out, palm turned upwards, and eyed him expectantly. But he would not part with it yet, holding it up to his eyes to admire it in the light.

"Pretty," Draco observed at last, hiding a glimmering half-smile at the delicious look of rolling emotions in her eyes. "What is it?"

"I believe," Severus answered composedly, "that it is a specimen of a Danoan embedded in crystal."

Hermione nodded her assent. "Correct, mr. Snape." (the shadow of a smile swept over her face because it clearly irked him to be referred to as thus) "You are, as usual, very well informed. This one is quite small, won't be fully evolved for another twenty years or so."

"And _you_ are, as usual, supremely overinformant."

Draco frowned, and shook it delicately again, displeasure at being outwritten from the conversation clearly evident. "But what do they _do_?"

She was suddenly smug, pleased. "Danoans are a sort of shellfish. Something between a crab and a shrimp, one might say. Quite ugly, but loyal pets, if one fancies cuddling something with tentacles and eight legs I suppose. They have a natural ability to record and replay memories and fantasies because that's what they build their shell of. Ergo, craft a favourite fantasy while holding it, place it under your pillow when you go to sleep… and sweet dreams _every night_."

Snape sighed. "Well done, miss Granger. You just manage to say in fifty words what someone else could have said in five."

She bristled, baring her teeth at him. "Danoans are very interesting creatures, and quite rare to boot. They are experimenting with breeding them artificially, you know."

"As a matter of fact, I did know. Their shells have some interesting qualities to a Potions master. Although," he sneered, "I have not yet had the luck of finding one. But even as a girl you bragged about your exclusive collections, did you not?"

"What do you mean?" she stiffened.

"Only that mr. Potter's friendship appears to be rare and wealthy coin these days indeed… how is young ms. Weasley doing these days, I do wonder?" he shook his head in mock sadness. "Such a sad business, it was. They say the poor boy she… attacked… won't be able to walk again."

"_It was an accident!_ She wasn't herself!" Hermione cried, spots of red flaming on her cheeks. The gryffindor lion inside her roared, and everything became hazy and then she came to her senses only because strong, warm arms were restraining her, holding her back.

"Easy, easy!" Draco exclaimed, struggling to subdue the snarling creature in his hold. "Easy…"

"Out! You despicable trash, worthless scum, traitor! Get _out_!"

Snape snorted disdainfully. "Temper, my dear."

But a pointed look from Malfoy made him strangely quiet. The silence was punctuated only by her heavy breaths as she slowly ceased struggling, every ebb and swell of her body against his sending a jolt of want coursing through his body, poisoning his blood. He swallowed, his hair brushing her cheek featherlight.

"If you think you are quite done _con amore_," Snape snapped impatiently, "then please let me know so we can get on to Bertram's. Preferably before I die out of sheer boredom." He emphasised.

Back in the Victorian era, when they had first opened as a respectable, honourable establishment Bertram's had been the first wizarding restaurant to overcome the obstacles associated with the use of a levitation spell upon multiple objects, and were the first to properly utilize flying trays. (And that, she thought, gave a whole new meaning to flying saucers.) Nowadays they were mostly famous for making the best darned pastries in all of London.

Malfoy only laughed, his breath soft but insistently strong and palpable upon the column of her soft, pale throat.

"Certainly, my impatient friend. We'd better leave miss Granger to let her… recover herself." His eyes glinted wickedly before he kissed her hand in a gentleman's goodbye. It wasn't until later she realised he had pocketed the Danoan while she wasn't looking.

She shuddered, surreptitiously wiping at the back of her hand. Trying to wash away the invisible mark he left behind.

In her dream that night, his eyes were so dark, smoldering with lust that did unspeakable things to the coil of desire in her stomach. She woke to a day that seemed somehow bleaker, emptier, than yesterday.


	2. A most accommodating invitation

Title: A most accommodating invitation  
Author: **empressizzy** on livejournal, **Fortyfive Stars** on Rating: G  
Warnings: None.  
A/N: I would like to give credit to the author **duj**, whose stories have provided me with  
interesting new angles on HP. Especially the story "Everything I've ever done: reunion"  
and the chapter "Dragging a family" influenced Hermione's arguments strongly in this chapter.

I suggest you go read it, it's very, very good.

* * *

Hermione was troubled, and she fell back on the routine she usually employed these days when such  
a mood befell her. She drew a bath, she put on a pot of tea – and she flooed Ron.

True to his nature he turned up soon enough, grumbling good-naturedly about her taxing his lunch  
break even further. She easily made up for it with a table set up for two, loaded with delicious dishes  
and snacks.

Hermione was in many ways an unorthodox witch who preferred modern times but when it came to tea  
she was very traditional indeed.

Tea –and its necessary components such as five different sorts of marmalade, additional jam and jelly  
sorts, real muffins with a lot of butter the proper english way and caraway cake- was not a thing to be  
taken lightly. A subtle swish of her wand set newly baked, steaming buttermilk scones on the table,  
and her fruit tarts were enough to make anyone consider gastric pains a small price.

"Give Luna the recipe for the cornbread and the apricot fruit tart, won't you?" Ron commented, after  
silence and sounds of munching had been the only conversation for a while. He helped her clear the  
table the muggle way, and it was finally time to get down to business.

"Maybe you should just learn to make it yourself," she replied archly, but smiled.

"Maybe." he said, appearing entirely unconcerned and stretching out his long, gangly legs with the  
obvious pleasure of one who has had good food, good company and looks forward to the prospect of  
a good nap.

Hermione was vaguely aware that Ron had become quite good-looking over the years, in the quiet,  
nice everyday sort of way. He didn't look much to the world – the cheerful, peaceful freckled type- but  
she knew that when he bothered to dress up –in dress robes without frills and frippery these days- he  
was surprisingly dashing. Broad shoulders, tall, a friendly, open face that didn't look as unformed or  
out of proportion as it had during their school days. The rest of his body had finally caught up with him.

"So what's bothering you? I thought we'd already gone over the Snape incident?"

"Yes," she said slowly, uncertainly, "But there is something about it that I can't.. it's  
so frustrating, it's something I know but whenever I try to pin it down it just… slips away."

He stared incredulously at her. "Are you trying to tell me… you're having a _hunch_? You?"

She flushed. "Don't know what else to call it. It's just a feeling, something odd. Like there's something  
that shouldn't be there, something that jars, you know? Oh, I'm just talking nonsense here!" she burst  
out, exasperated with herself. But Ron nodded slowly, and tapped the tip of his nose.

"Perhaps not… let's look at it again. Just listen to me and… shake your head if I'm wrong. So Malfoy  
comes in, and you don't recognise him… until Snape enters, and clearly demonstrates they're in the  
same company." He looked at her closely for any signs of an awakening memory.

"Right. Nothing so far. Then you… what? You talk about those odd shell-fish things you're so exited  
about these days- ow, don't swat me, I'm doing us a favour here! … right, and then he insults you and  
you fly at him. Malfoy holds you back, and— what?"

"That's it!" she breathed, astonishing Ron by slamming her palm flat on the table. "That's what's  
wrong, but—" she frowned. "How did _he_ know? How did he _know_?"

"Who? What? … huh?" Ron smiled wryly. "Clearly something important just transpired but honestly, it  
went right over my head."

"Snape," Hermione burst out impatiently, " that's what's wrong. I don't know why I didn't remember it  
before – I must have forgotten it in the heat of the moment. He… it wasn't that he insulted me that  
made me react like that. He… knows about Ginny, Ron. Don't ask me how yet, I don't know, but I  
know that he knows. If that makes sense."

Ron froze, and momentarily his face became a stony mask. Then he forced himself to relax.

"Well, well… are you sure?" she nodded and he closed his eyes briefly. He trusted Hermione fully and  
if she said she was certain of it, then it was so.

"That… is not so good. At all."

"We have to stay calm, Ron. We don't know anything yet besides that, remember. Let's… think this  
through, carefully. Right. So, the most important questions… how does he know?"

He nodded. The years since Hogwarts had matured not only his body but his mind as well, making  
Ron a moderately insightful person and a more than adept chessplayer, dangerous because of his  
dazzling strategics and ability to analyse the situations on the board in depth.

"Who told him, but maybe that's the same thing. Maybe. Why hasn't he told anyone? Anti-government  
groups would pay him very well to get their hands on stuff like this…"

She frowned. "You're right, this doesn't make sense. Why would he sit tight on information like that?"

"And," she forged on, "you know what I have always wondered? What possessed Neville that day?  
Why did he let Snape go free? Why wouldn't he let us sit in on the trial?"

Ron shrugged. "Resentment. Think he's forgiven us yet for what we did to him? I don't think so."

"It was necessary!""It was bloody stupid, and you know it."

A pause. "Yes. I know. Poor Neville…" she flashed a smile of hurt and fond remembrance. "I do feel  
sorry for him, a bit. I know he didn't want to be Minister, and to be forced into it only after Harry, you  
and I had passed up on it… how is he these days? He still won't talk to me. I've stopped trying to get  
in touch with him."

"Luna tells me he's pretty good. They… talk, I guess, every now and then. But that's neither here nor  
there – let's get back to Snape."

Ron considered for a moment, hands steepled together, and Hermione patiently waited.

"The way I see it," he said at last in a slow, lingering sort of way, "we can either sit here guessing… or we  
can ask the man himself. No, no, wait – don't call me a twit just yet. I was thinking of a, a party or  
something; maybe we could have a large Victory dinner? It has been—3 years, after all. Damn.  
Should've been an even number." He waved his hands vaguely. "But something like that."

Hermione tapped her chin. "Ye-e-s… the idea has merit, I admit. In a crowd, and if we set someone  
else up as host, then no one would really notice if we holed up with him for a while, would they?  
They'd just think we were somewhere else."

"Yeah… it sounds as if we could do it. I think he'd accept the invitation, too – you know that the former  
death eaters have had a hard time trying to get back into society, and since Snape was kicked out of  
old Hoggy," ("I really wish you wouldn't call it that," Hermione muttered and he winked.) "I hear he's  
mostly been doing short-term jobs for one company or another. Yes, I think we can safely say he'll  
come."

"No doubt. The most important is actually what poor sod we'll foist the role as host on. I mean, we can  
host it at the Monstrous Mansion. In fact, I rather think we should. A bitremote, large, many nooks and  
crannies… sounds like just what we need."

Ron snorted. The Monstrous Mansion was Hermione's loving name for the country estate she had  
been given after the war ended. It was part of her 'reward for brave deeds' – the single act of standing  
by Harry's side had enabled both Ron and Hermione to retire before they even turned twenty, had  
they wanted to. They even had titles, and land somewhere.

Of course mansion was a bit misleading. Palace more justified the description of the house, and the  
quite enormous grounds belonging to it.

They looked at each other, then at once Hermione said "Molly," and Ron exclaimed, "Mom!"

"Oh goody, then that's settled. Work your magic on old mum won't you, although I have a feeling she  
won't be too negatively dispositioned to it." Hermione said sarcastically.

"I rather think you're right," Ron admitted with a long-suffering sigh. The falling silence was punctuated  
by his fingers drumming a blithe melody on the table.

"Speaking of which… sort of, anyway… have you noticed how lately Neville's begun to…"

"Think for himself and not asking Harry's permission everytime he has to visit the bathrom?" she  
finished dryly. Ron nodded, grinning.

"Yes, I have noticed, and I think it's about time. He's the Minister, for Merlin's sake, and then he should  
damn well act like it."

"I think Neville's always felt it's Harry's rightful post, though."

"Haven't we all?" Hermione replied sardonically. "Maybe even Harry himself… you know, I've often  
wondered why he never accepted it, because frankly he's already running the show what with the way  
Neville's constantly asking for advice on how to do this or handle that crisis. At first I thought he was  
doing it to be nice but that doesn't account for why Neville's suddenly and unexpectedly revived  
independency is making Harry throw temper tantrums… he is, don't deny it. Maybe… because he  
wants to be like Dumbledore."

"And would that be so bad?" Ron retorted mildly, and she scowled.

"We were just children, Ron! He had no right to ask that kind of sacrifice of us, no right at all. Always  
covert, always acting on his own whims and manipulating people. Why didn't he offer us real guidance  
instead of 'Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak'?"

"He was a great man." Ron said quietly and stared into the dregs of tea leaves left at the bottom of his  
cup as if they could tell him the answer to the riddle of the universe. (Professor Trelawney would have  
said they could.)

"Yes, but who said greatness is the same as goodness? He meant well, Ron, I genuinely believe that,  
but he went about it the wrong way. He made mistakes. We were too young to see it then, but don't  
you see now? He shouldn't have estranged the public or the Ministry, he should have joined forces  
with the government for our safety."

"The Ministry was corrupt. They were against us."

"Oh, that's just excuses! He could have fixed it! Dumbledore could have had them eating out of his  
hand, so why didn't he use his influence to sway them towards us? He could have fixed the Ministry,  
he could have been the Ministry. But no, he preferred working outside of the law. When a great threat  
such as Voldemort" (Ron winced) "arises then there shouldn't be a rebel army –that's what the order  
was, after all- - where was I? Right, then there shouldn't be a rebel army working against government  
forces. That's undermining your own defence, and you _know_ it!"

"And yet you followed him like the rest od us."

"No. Everything I did, I did for Harry. Besides, what choice did I have? It wasn't possible to be neutral,  
after all. And I never said I thought like I do now back then. In a way, I sort of envy you, because you  
still think Dumbledore was, was… omnipotent, and all-knowing and wise. And I, well… I don't."

Ron sighed. "Harry won't agree with you."

"Don't I know it." Hermione said in a voice bitter and black like ash. "But then Harry and I don't agree  
on many things at all these days." She cleared her throat determinedly. "Enough about that. I'll invite  
the Clarks and the Turrowtons… oh, stop it. We must be seen as open-minded, it's essential. Besides,  
they're very diverting people."

"And I'll invite miss Marple, too, and ask her to bring her nephew. They're both very nice."

He placed gentle hands on her shoulders and drew her into his embrace.  
"Oh, Hermione. You _do_ know I love you, don't you?"

A thrill of elation went through her body and she laughed. "I know. I'm just so loveable."

Ron ruffled her hair.  
"Girls," he huffed. "Not a shred of humility or decency in you."  
She grinned.

"No," Hermione replied cheerfully, stepping back to smooth down her hair insofar as it was possible.  
"Not possible for someone who's so clever as me. I'm proud of you, Ron."

They shared a smile, content to just sit quietly and share a moment of friendship. Then Hermione  
glanced at the clock and appeared to shrug off the suddenly sentimental atmosphere.

"Goodness, look at the time – you must be off, really. Give Luna my love – oh, and tell her she had  
better not decide to go into labour before Christmas. Now please go – my bath is waiting for me."

- -

Scarcely two days later a festively decorated envelope arrived in the owl post, an ornate, flourishing  
style declaring it was adressed to _Mr. Severus Snape, Nr. 13 Winthrop Square, second floor on the  
left_.

The ink was red and glittered tantalizingly in the sunlight streaming in through the moderately clean  
windows of his small, somewhat dingy apartment. When he brought it closer he felt a subtle but slowly  
overpowering smell of perfume, and he wrinkled his nose.

Glitter. Perfume. As if the writer on purpose had launched on some sort of holy crusade to offend his  
senses.

But when Severus pulled out a gilt-edged invitation written on thick, cream white paper everything was  
forgiven – or at least for the moment forgotten.

He read the invitation twice, bending down over it so close that his nose almost touched the paper to  
make sure not a word passed him by. Then he straightened up and a small smile danced over the thin  
lips. Briefly the sharp-edged face looked softer, kinder. He slowly pushed the envelope around on the  
table and sent the dishes to the sink with a distracted tap of his wand. "A most accommodating  
invitation, indeed."


End file.
